“I didn’t do anything.”
She studied him for a moment, slid the pen back down again, and slouched, resumed her arms-across-her-chest position. This time she crossed her legs too. “So why are we here?”
He gave a startled laugh. “You know what? You’d make a great doctor.”
She stared at him in confusion.
“Your bedside manner is perfect.”
She just upped the voltage of her glare.
“Look. I don’t want to be here either,” he said in frustration. “I’ve come to this police station three times and walked away each time, before I ever made it inside.”
“Congratulations, you made it inside,” she said. “Are we done now?”
He stared at her and then laughed. “Of all the things I ever thought I would come up against, not even having a chance to talk wasn’t one of them.”
“You’ve had lots of chances to talk,” she said, “but you’re not talking.”
“Same nightmares over and over again over the years, but now really concentrated in the last week,” he snapped. He clasped his hands together in front of him, a small yellow ball squeezed in between.
She studied the child’s toy, wondering why it was firing in her memory. There were thousands all around the city just like it. Forcing her gaze back to stranger, she studied his stiff back and rigid jaw. “Not helpful,” she said, and she managed to keep her tone completely flat.
He shook his head. “Same little boy every night.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Do you like little boys?”
He fisted his hands on the table, leaned forward, and said, “The same little boy being walked down Hastings Street under the shadow of the lights, a little boy not more than five, maybe six, years old, holding the hand of some old guy, who scares the crap out of me.”
“Interesting,” she murmured. She studied him closely for any signs of deception, but nothing was really there, as far as she could tell. He was telling the truth, as he believed it to be, but, so far, he hadn’t said anything definitive yet. “Can you identify the little boy?”
“Only that he’s got some lollipop in his free hand, and he’s wearing a little Burberry coat,” he said. “I can’t tell what color it is.”
“Why is that? You said there were lampposts.”
“He is walking under the lampposts, yes, but everything is in shades of grays.”
“Your nightmares are in gray?”
“This one is, yes.”
“So then what happens?” she asked, intrigued in spite of herself. She didn’t know what it had to do with the police, but she could imagine that a dream,nightmare, as he’d said, that would happen over and over again would really piss off a guy like this. That fascinated her as much as anything.
“I just hear this voice that calls out, ‘Timothy.’”
“Timothy?” she said, questioning, her body stiffening at the name.
He nodded.
“Timothy?” she snapped, her feet flat on the floor. “Is this some sick joke?”
He looked at her in surprise. “No,” he said. “What are you talking about?”
She stared at him and then gave a hard headshake. No, he couldn’t know. Besides, her Timmy had gone missing during the day, not the evening, and had happened a long time ago. “Look. I don’t know what your nightmare is all about,” she said, “or why you think you need to tell me about it. I’m a homicide detective, in case you didn’t know.” She stopped, took a deep breath. “But if you don’t have anything else, then this interview is over.”
“This is an interview?” he asked curiously.
“Look, sir,” she snapped. “Do you have anything else you feel like you need to tell me?”